Y~K
by Tori-chan
Summary: Youji POV, written in journal format. Includes sexual references, yaoi, angst, violence, and all sorts of yummy things. It's meant to be one point of view on Kudou Youji's personality beneath that playboy facade.
1. Default Chapter

Y~K  
a weiß kreuz fanfic by Tori-chan  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Disclaimers: I don't own Weiß, to my great distress, and I'm not trying to look like I do. The story is simply for entertainment's purposes, probably mine more than the readers, so don't sue me, please. ^_~ And don't take my idea, or I'll come hunt you down and make you watch badly dubbed Card Captor Sakura as retribution. :P Thanks for reading!  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Y~K: Part One  
  
  
  
Saturday, August 25  
  
  
I can't believe I'm doing this. It's all because Ken decided that I was too closed up, too withdrawn in my feelings. Can you believe it? Me, withdrawn? To tell you the truth, I'm starting to think Ken's losing it. Not that I blame him . . . sometimes, when I'm alone in bed at night, I begin to wonder if we're not all doomed to death, if not a death of the body then a death of the soul. Or perhaps we're all dead inside already, frozen into a crude simile of life, smiles carved from cold marble and limestone.  
  
Aya didn't say anything, when Ken bought me this journal. Didn't even look in our direction. I suppose that's to be expected, but wouldn't you think -he's- more closed than I am? I've only ever seen him react in anger, perhaps at the mention of Takatori, or perhaps at an insult to his sister. Now -there's- someone who needs counseling. Honestly, couldn't he at least make the attempt to smile? It's only a little thing, a cold comfort to the rest of us in this hell on earth we live in.  
  
And so, I'm beginning a diary . . . It doesn't make sense, any more than it made sense for Ken to buy it for me rather than for Aya. How am I supposed to write down my inner feelings and desires and musings in a book that anyone could pick up and read at any time? I'm going to have to find a place to hide this book if I'm going to write any more in it. I'm having second thoughts. Ken's an idiot.  
  
  
  
  
Tuesday, August 28  
  
  
  
I'm hiding this journal in my nightstand drawer. I'd overlooked it at first, thinking it was too obvious a hiding spot, but I'm rethinking it. They're all too innocent to think of looking under the box of condoms and pushing aside the erotica magazine to find something so innocent as a journal, after all.  
  
  
  
  
Thursday, September 6  
  
  
  
So sue me for not writing, I've been busy. Ken, if you're reading this, go away, because you're too young to be reading the journal of Kudou Youji, ladies' man, playboy extraordinaire.   
  
There's a mission tonight. Kritiker thinks they've found the hideout of some pedophile, the cause of all the little children missing lately. We almost had to physiclly keep Aya from heading to the old warehouse in broad daylight, right then and there. The idiot's always unable to keep himself from interfering when it comes to children. I suppose I don't blame him, really.   
  
I'm out of cigarettes again. I could have sworn that I had another two boxes in my underwear drawer, but when I looked, they were gone. So even that place has been violated -- what moron's been searching my -underwear- drawer to keep me from supposedly smelling up the shop with tobacco? Omi keeps saying it's because they don't want me to get lung cancer or something, but I'm not an idiot. Lung cancer isn't an immediate danger, especially if I could die any day on a mission. The four of us stay together because on the outside, we make a good team. We don't die, we kill the bad guys, and then ride off into the figurative sunset on the backs of our metaphorical white stallions. But underneath, there's friction, a fire waiting to get out and tear us all apart. None of us are friends; if we're left together in a room for too long without a mission to keep us occupied, we end up shouting at one another over the stupidest of things.  
  
Sometimes I wish we'd all met under different circumstances. I feel like I could have been friends with any of them -- yes, even Aya the ice maiden. But it can't happen, because real life is nothing like a happy-ending manga. Our lives are all so tenuous, brief flames from burned out candles, liable to be snuffed out at the first treacherous breeze. A stray gunshot could finish any of us off, a flick of a blade, a flare of fire. We could even kill each other, if not on purpose, by accident. Once or twice, I think Aya's been a step away from killing me. I admire that man's self-restraint. Odd. Earlier, I said that he had none.  
  
But the point remains that we're all too likely to be killed at any time. There's no room for friendships, no room for anything besides hunt, search, kill. No time for anything except survival. There's no glory in being an assassin, nothing for the fangirls in the shop to swoon over if they knew. It's bloody, dirty, hellish, and there's no escape. None of us can live normally after doing this for a living.   
  
  
  
  
Friday, September 7  
  
  
  
I think Aya almost got killed last night during the mission. Of the four of us, he's the rashest and the worst planner, for all his usual cold cynicism. We'd planned to split into two groups, one at the front and one at the back of the warehouse, to scout it out. I was to be with Ken, and Aya with Omi. But no sooner had Ken and I reached our posts than Omi's voice suddenly crackled over our communits, startling Ken into tripping flat on his face. We couldn't tell what he was saying, the static was so bad. I thought that maybe his face was too close to the mic, so I told him to calm down and talk slower. There was a pause, and Omi said between gritted teeth, "Aya is gone!"  
  
It turned out that the moron had lost patience and slipped away when Omi wasn't looking. We went to look for him, and found him unconscious on the floor. The pedophile himself hadn't done anything about him after shooting Aya with the tranuilizer he'd used on the kids, which wasn't the brightest of ideas. I assume he thought that Aya was a relative of one of the kids, and had come alone. I reached the man first and while I dealt with him, Omi and Ken went to Aya and discovered that the tranquilizer was no tranquilizer at all, and that it had been a slow-acting, old poison. It was easy to find the antidote, and Aya's already scowling at us from his bed, but it had visibly shaken more than one member of our group.   
  
The old man himself was easy to finish off. I remember that the first person I ever killed, I had killed with a gun. It was surprisingly easy -- I had him pinned against a wall, the gun pointed at his snivelling, sobbing face. It was easy to pull the trigger, and somehow the gunshot didn't even seem to be that loud. It was only later that night, in the small hours of the morning when I was trying to go to sleep, that I realized what I had done, remembered the fear in his eyes, and later the sight of half his face blown away, his corpse lying in a cooling pool of blood. I still remember that night, my despairing cries and the uncaring, unfeeling silence that swallowed them. I vowed that night never to kill anyone else, and a week later, I killed my second man.  
  
Killing by strangulation is very different from killing with a gun. A gun almost gives you a feeling of anonymity, a feeling of detachment from your victim. All you have to do is point and shoot, and the man falls down dead. You don't even have to be anywhere near him, and it only takes a matter of seconds. Using a wire is different. You have to touch the victim, feel him, smell him, taste his breath upon your tongue, taste the smell of fear in the air. You have to watch as first disbelief crosses his features, then a soul-devouring fear, and then finally, aching despair. You have to watch his eyes bulge and his tongue protrude and his face begin to turn blue. You have to hear his throat closing and lungs straining and feel his thrashing limbs slowly subside into stillness. And you have to stand back up and leave his corpse lying there, cooling slowly, face contorted with the basest of fears and despair.   
  
I've wondered before why I don't just get a gun to fight with. They've got some that are near silent now, so it's not an issue of making quiet kills. I think it's an issue of guilt. With every person I kill, another piece of me dies along with them.  
  
  
  
  
Sunday, September 9  
  
  
  
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to take one of the other three assassins as a lover.   
  
(You see, Ken, this is why you shouldn't be reading this. Go away, if you are.)   
  
Most people would stare at me in shock if I said this, of course. For one thing, I'm supposed to be the ladies' man, the playboy. I'm the straightest of the straight, of course. I've bedded more women than the other three ever will, put together. But the truth is, I'm not completely straight. I enjoy women, don't get me wrong. But you can have just as much fun with another man as you can with a woman, just a different sort of fun.   
  
I've only done it once, when I was younger and a private investigator. It was before I met Asuka, of course, and he was a great guy. One of my best friends actually, both before and after we had sex. I was a bit dubious at first, but we were both a little drunk, and the party was loud and hot and the lights were low. It wasn't hard to slip away. It was fast, hot, with no strings attached, no loving kisses and no murmured endearments. Neither of us were virgins, after all, and even though he was gay, I still knew what I was doing.  
  
Bedding one of these three would be different from that hurried night of exploration. All three of them are so beautiful, in their different ways. I've imagined what it could be like before, but I'll never know for sure.  
  
Aya is probably the one I'm most physically attracted to. He has beautiful skin, and from the few times I've touched him in order to dress wounds, it's soft as well as pale. His hair starkly contrasts that marble-like skin, silky and thick, falling over the curves of his face like honey. He smells of dark musk and midnight thunderstorms and danger, with violet eyes that could sear the very scraps of your soul from your body. Aya, for all his masculine angst and boyish stubbornness, is very like a woman. I'm not even sure if he's not a virgin sometimes. No, scratch that -- I've heard him late at night before, and anyone who has dreams like -that- can't possibly be a virgin. His room is right next to mine, after all, and the walls of these apartments are so thin. From the dream-talk and murmured fantasies I've heard, he's very submissive during love-making, like the traditional woman's role.  
  
Ken, now . . . Ken is not a virgin. I know, because I walked in on him and a young woman once. It had been on a weekend, when we weren't having any serious missions coming up that we knew about. I was looking for my cigarettes, and I was meaning to ask Ken because he's the most likely to give in and tell me where they were. I opened the door and walked in without knocking, because I didn't think about it. Ken was sprawled, head thrown back, his back against the headboard. He didn't have a stitch of clothing on, and I'm still surprised when I think back on just how muscled his wiry frame was. I suppose I had always imagined a skimpy body to go with his boyishly clutzy personality. The girl's dark head was buried between his legs, and from the faint moans escaping Ken's lips, she'd had experience doing what she was doing before. Ken must have seen movement, because his eyes struggled to focus on my startled face. The girl didn't notice -- or, perhaps, she had noticed and not cared. She continued her work, and Ken was dragged back into his pleasure with a strangled cry. I quietly shut the door and left, though the sound of the bedsprings and Ken's muffled gasps followed me down the hallway. He blushed whenever he saw me for about a week afterwards.  
  
Omi's the one I would have the greatest chance with, I think. He's so young, and so innocent. I know he's a virgin, by the way my teasing makes him blush, and the way he knows nothing about anything remotely sexual is a dead giveaway. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't know what homosexual sex -was- until I started teasing him that he never had a girlfriend. I could seduce him in record time, if I ever wanted to. Sometimes I do, I feel so lonely. It would be wrong, though, to seduce him just because he's innocent -- no, innocent isn't the word; anyone who kills for a living has had their innocence long since stripped away. Sexually inexperienced, I suppose is a better term. It would be disgusting of me to convince him that he's gay, to mess with his mind just to get him to sleep with me. But it's tempting. It's painfully tempting.  
  
It's one thing to have one night stand with some girl picked up off the street. It's another thing entirely to be able to share that intimacy with someone who knows who you are, even superficially. It's painfully tempting.  
  
  
_________________________________________________________________  
  
Author's note:   
This is my first try at writing this sort of POV fic. It's also my first posted attempt at the more explicit sex/yaoi references. It's also . . . well, just suffice it to say that it's my first attempt at a lot of things. This is the sort of story that I don't plan, so anything could happen. I would really, really appreciate any comments on this, either in the review form and/or by emailing me at saezuru@hotmail.com. ^_~ Thanks a bunch for reading! I should have the next installment out pretty shortly, as I've got most of it written already. Ciao! 


	2. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------  
Disclaimer: I don't own Weiß, to my great distress, and I'm not trying to look like I do. The story is simply for entertainment's purposes, probably mine more than the readers, so don't sue me, please. ^_~ And don't take my idea, or I'll come hunt you down and make you watch the last two episodes of Evangelion until your mind melts as retribution. :P Thanks for reading!  
----------------------------------------------------------------------  
Author's Note: In the first chapter, I didn't mention the time setting, because it wasn't needed. Now, though, you all should know that it takes place after the end of the TV series, without the events of the OVAs. ^_^ Thanks for reading, and on with the story. *confetti*  
----------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Y~K: Part Two  
by Tori-chan  
  
  
  
  
Sunday, September 16  
  
  
Manx is an infuriating woman. Some people think I won't take no for an answer, that I force women or something like that. I'm not a monster. If a girl truly isn't interested, I leave her alone. Manx is different, though . . . she's the only woman ever to respond whole-heartedly to my flirting just until I start to get serious, and then back off coldly. I've wondered if she's a lesbian before, but I've never actually believed it. But today, I realized something as I watched her watching the computer-generated Persia giving us our mission. I was only watching her so that I could rest my eyes on something that -wasn't- our dead founder, but as I did, I saw her reach up quickly to brush angrily at her eyes. And I'm not stupid, after all, especially not when it comes to emotions. I'd wondered before why she works with such devotion with this group -- and today, I realized that it was because she was in love with Persia.  
  
Love . . . it's such an odd emotion. So many people mention it as if they knew what they were talking about, when really there's no way to know exactly what love is. Sometimes I wonder if I'm even capable of love, if it's possible for someone so dead inside to feel such a burning sensation. But then I remember -her- eyes, her hair, the way she smelled in the darkness, the play of moonlight over her slick, sweat-covered skin when she'd fall asleep in my arms. I think of how easily her name rolls off my lips, but how hard it is to get it past the lump in my throat. And so, rather than wonder if I was capable of love, I wonder if I'll ever be capable of it again.  
  
I thought for a while tonight that maybe I was falling in love with Manx. But I know I'm not; when I learned about her feelings for Persia, I wasn't upset because she was already in love, but because she has had such a loss. I'm not in love with her, because what I feel is sympathy. We are like souls, both having loved and lost horribly, and we can never be together because we're still haunted by the ghosts of our loved ones.  
  
  
  
  
  
Monday, September 17  
  
  
11:30, AM . . .  
  
I was so wrapped up yesterday in contemplation of our red-headed secretary that I didn't catch our mission fully. Annoyed, Omi asked why I hadn't seen. I just raised an eyebrow at him, letting a smirk play across my lips. He blushed in confusion and turned away, and I felt a silent triumph. It'd be so easy to seduce him, and just as easy to cast him away again. But while it would be easy, it would also be wrong -- and besides, I had to focus on our missions. No time for sexual tension between any of the members of Weiß.  
  
The target this time is unknown. Our job, for once, is not to kill the target, but follow them. Kritiker has apparently sent people to find out more, only to have them disappear completely. And so, they're sending us, because we're able to better defend ourselves. This afternoon, we head to Hayakawa Park to start our careful vigil for anything, anyone out of place. This mission, to me, is especially intriguing. Not only are we supposed to avoid killing, but we're being the seekers for once, the gatherers of information, the solvers of mystery. That's always been my calling -- as a private investigator, the best moments of my life where those when the pieces all fell into place, and I suddenly felt that thrill that meant I had solved the mystery.  
  
I wish I had gotten recruited into Kritiker, not into Weiß. I hate being a murderer.  
  
  
10:20, PM . . .  
  
I was right when I said that this mission was intriguing. When we got to the park, the four of us split up and went our separate ways to be as inconspicuous as possible. The others were dressed in dark clothing, and when they went off on their separate paths, they all moved as quietly as they could, quietly gazing around the sculpted landscape. They moved like assassins. My approach was vastly different from theirs -- I wore one of my date outfits, as I call them; namely, the clothes I wear when I plan to get laid. Tight black jeans, with worn knees and ankle boots, and a dark red midriff shirt and jacket over it, my hair pulled back in a rumpled tail, sections of it falling forwards to frame my face. I knew I was dressed to kill, and with that knowledge I fairly exuded a sensual, secretive promise about me. I got about two minutes into the park before the first woman approached me. She was dressed in a seemingly casual way, but that in reality, probably took her the better part of an hour to achieve. I tossed off one of my obviously joking pickup lines, and she laughed, and we started to talk. Before long, I had a sizeable crowd with me, and had already receive a few telephone numbers.  
  
We were supposed to be watching for the source of the series of strange disappearances recently. The people have disappeared without warning and without a trace, but with strong similarities to the other cases. With the exclusion of the Kritiker agents, they have all been women and have all disappeared from this very park. So, in my opinion, my strategy is the best. Instead of hunting down these women and risking missing the attack, why not make them all come to you? And that is what I did.  
  
Nothing ended up happening today, but Omi says that's nothing unusual because there isn't a kidnaping every day. "Most likely," he said, "They -- whoever 'they' are -- will try for a time when there's less of a crowd in one place." I ignored the implied annoyance in his tone, saying, "At least we scoped the place out. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a few phone calls to make." And with that, I pulled out the crumpled and folded slips of paper from my pocket with the numbers I had gathered today. Omi flushed and turned away, though whether in anger or in embarrassment it was hard to tell. He would be -so- easy.  
  
"Youji," said Ken, looking faintly annoyed. "Don't you ever stop to consider the girls' feelings? How many numbers do you have there?"  
  
I looked down at them. "Nine," I announced. Then: "No, wait . . . if you count the one written on my arm, it's ten. She didn't have a piece of paper handy." And I pulled back my sleeve and lifted my arm so that they could see the slightly smudged ink numbers on my inner wrist.  
  
Ken just shook his head and left to go to one of his soccer practices. Omi soon followed him out the door, going to make a delivery. That just left me and the snowflake-man himself, who was leaning on the counter right in front of the telephone. I don't remember exactly what I said, but it was something to the effect of, "Move over, Aya, I need the phone."  
  
His eyes flicked from the doorway to mine, narrowed slightly. He didn't say anything, and after a moment or two he moved away so I could get at the telephone. I picked up the receiver and sorted through my lists of numbers. Choosing one at random, I dialed the number.  
  
"Moshi moshi?" came the response. I winced . . . it was the girl with the high-pitched, nasal voice that I couldn't stand. I still don't know why I didn't stall her before she gave me her number. I considered hanging up without answering and trying a different number, but I didn't.  
  
"Ahh . . . Naika-chan?" I have a talent for remembering names. Women's names, anyway.  
  
"Kudou-san!"  
  
"Youji, if you will."  
  
I could almost feel her blush with pleasure. "Youji-san, then. I didn't know you'd call so soon . . ."  
  
"I couldn't wait," I said, grinning despite the fact that she couldn't see me. I happened to glance around the room, and noticed with a faint surprise that Aya was glowering me. I quickly moved my gaze again before he could notice that I'd seen him watching me, but somehow I could still feel his eyes on me. My mind was reeling . . . why was he watching me? Like two amethyst fires, burning into my face, lingering on me, as if--  
  
"Youji-san? -Youji-san-! Hello? Are you still there?"  
  
"O-Oh, N . . ." For some reason, I'd forgotten her name. "I'll call you back later, hmm?"  
  
"Oh, alr--"  
  
I hung up the telephone.  
  
  
  
  
  
Friday, September 21  
  
  
We had a day off yesterday, and not much happened at all. I lay around the shop, doing nothing as usual, while the others grumbled good-naturedly at me. Today, though, we returned to the park in the afternoon to do another watch. The others told me that I wasn't allowed to pick up girls. How idiotic is that? I suppose it makes a little bit of sense, in that if the mysterious kidnappers aren't going to strike when all the girls are clustered together, it defeats our purpose. So, when we returned this afternoon, I was forced to dig through my wardrobe to find the most unnoticeable, drab, unsuggestive clothing I could find. It ended up being a pair of faded jeans and a white t-shirt, which had a faded image on the left front that looked a bit like a lipstick mark, and read on the back, "Careful, I'm ticklish." Not the perfect choice, perhaps, but it was the best I could do without borrowing one of Aya's shirts since the other two assassins' clothes are too small for me. I'm not trying to be offensive, or anything, but that man has the worst fashion sense I've ever seen.  
  
A few young women caught my eye despite my drab clothing, but I avoided them and after a while, I was left alone. The park was surprisingly beautiful, something I hadn't noticed the first time we were there. I ended up walking around for a while in my section of 'patrol', as Ken had started calling it, but I saw nothing unusual. So, I headed toward a bench and sat down. There was an old lady sitting on it too, and she took one look at me and got up and left. I wasn't -trying- to be offensive. That t-shirt was the only thing I could find on such short notice. Honestly.  
  
I put my arms behind my head and leaned back, looking as if I were half-asleep but actually keeping an eye on my surroundings. Once I saw Omi walk by, but he didn't see me, for reasons which were fairly obvious. He was blushing furiously, and one of the girls I've seen lingering around the flower- shop was following him closely and talking cheerfully. I had to hide a quick burst of laughter -- it's not that I didn't want him to see me, I just didn't want to embarrass him. I don't even think he realized that he'd gone out of his patrol quadrant and drifted into mine. He doesn't even realize that he's a lady-killer; none of them do. They all frown upon me, without even noticing that they're just as good at breaking fickle hearts as I am.  
  
As he passed, I felt that little wrench I always feel when he's near. I'm not sure what it is -- it's not really attraction, I don't think. He's too innocent and boyish for me to be attracted. And besides, he's a guy . . . despite my earlier comments, I'm not really all that attracted to men. It has to be a special circumstance. So, if it's not attraction . . . what? Guilt at even contemplating him?  
  
I was so wrapped up in my inner monologue that at first I didn't notice an alteration in the general ebb and flow of the crowds in the park. There was a man, dressed not in black, but in dark brown and navy blue clothing, and he was walking across the grass rather than the paths. When I did notice, I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye so as not to draw his attention. I couldn't really see his face, as his back was mostly to me, but I still didn't want to be caught staring at him. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, walking with a purposeful step, very different from the drifting, aimless steps of the people there to enjoy the beautiful fall day. I have to admit, though, I wasn't really suspicious of him until he stepped in a clump of fallen leaves that crackled underfoot; he flinched a little, and glanced around. It wasn't a guilty look, and anyone not looking for someone suspicious wouldn't even think twice about it, but it showed that he was used to covert operations that needed silence rather than a walk in the park.  
  
As he looked around, I saw his face -- and started, quickly averting my eyes and feigning sleep. The man was Crawford, without a doubt. Before I had time to consider the implications of this, he approached a quiet-looking, almost mousy girl sitting on a bench with a textbook on her lap. She looked up, startled, as he said something I couldn't hear, and then flushed faintly. She then recovered herself and smiled a little nervously, and I noticed that she wasn't quite as young as I had thought -- at least halfway through undergraduate school, if not older. She said something back, and Crawford laughed quietly, and in a louder voice said something that sounded like an offer of help. She grinned and nodded, gathering her books and papers and tucking them into her pack. Then she stood, and gestured something, and they headed off down the path.  
  
What -had- he said to get her to follow him so quickly? I didn't have time to wonder, though. I got up and stretched, moving slowly despite my nerves screaming at me to hurry and follow them. I stuck my hands in my pockets, adapting that sort of slouching, I-don't-care-what-you-think-about-me sort of stance, and headed off after them on the path, looking just as aimless as the majority of the people there, if not more so.  
  
I didn't risk going close enough to hear their conversation, but it was obvious, from the ease that Crawford was wrapping her around his finger, that he had done this before. I'd found our kidnapper.  
  
As I followed them, I had to go through Aya's section of the park. I saw him, but hurried onwards, avoiding looking at him lest he detect my gaze. I'm still not sure why I didn't want him to join me in the dangerous chase -- it wasn't that I didn't want him to know what I was doing; it wasn't even because I wanted the so-called 'glory' of finding our target myself. He looked up once, but he must not have seen me because he looked back the other way almost immediately.  
  
I ended up following them to a library, of all places. I went behind one of the shelves, pretending to be interested in the books there. The two talked for a while more, and then I heard Crawford say, "So you'll meet me there tomorrow night?" And the girl smiled up at him and nodded earnestly. And with that, Crawford turned and left -- but not before glancing back in my direction. I quickly withdrew back behind the shelves again; I don't think he saw me, because he simply turned back around and exited. The woman remained for a few moments and then also left. I almost went to follow her and warn her not to go to wherever he'd told her to go, but a voice behind me made me stop.  
  
"Physics, Youji?"  
  
It was Aya. He was eyeing me with that cold, calm expression of his, one eyebrow raised. I looked down at the book I had picked up, and the title was 'The Infamous Boundary: Seven Decades of Heresy in Quantum Physics.' He just let out a derisive snort at my shrug, and said, "You shouldn't have run off on your own."  
  
"I can handle myself," I said in a steady voice, despite the strange feeling of hopeful confusion rising in me. "Don't be worried on my account, Aya."  
  
"I wasn't worried for your sake," he said with the faint twist of his lips that passed for a sardonic smile. "If you'd gotten caught, you could have blown the whole thing, mission, cover, base, and all. And don't say you wouldn't have told them everything about us, because they could have just picked it from your mind. I followed you because if you'd gotten caught and there was no chance of getting you out, you'd need to be silenced before you could tell them anything important."  
  
A chill ran through me at those callous words, and I snapped back a reply to cover my instinct to recoil from his impeccably cold expression. The conversation deteriorated at that point -- I didn't admit it then, but I suppose here I can say it. Aya is a cold-hearted bastard, but what he said was even more deliberately hurtful than his usual icy rejoinders, and I will risk sounding like a three year-old and say that it hurt. We ended up getting pointedly told to get out of the library for shouting -- well, I was the one doing the shouting, and Aya was merely glaring at me and saying insults through gritted teeth. We went back to the park in silence, and I told the others what had happened -- minus the argument in the library, of course.  
  
I meant to write in here about my speculations on Schwartz. We had, of course, thought that they'd died in that building collapse during the whole Estet demon-raising business with Aya's sister. Logically, that assumption doesn't make much sense; the four of us survived, so why not them? But anyway, it's taken too long to recount today's events, and I'm practically falling asleep writing this, so I'll quit while I'm awake. Oddly enough, however, it's not Schwartz that's occupying my thoughts right now. I'm so damn -lonely-. 


End file.
